


snowblind, ablaze

by unhappy_matt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ficlet, Gen, Grief/Mourning, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Loneliness, Memories, Mini-Fic, Pre-Canon, brief suicidal imagery, slight horror imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: A memory from the past. Mourning in the present.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester
Kudos: 9





	snowblind, ablaze

**Author's Note:**

> This is me being enormously late with a prompt I was given by Ems SEVERAL seasons ago.  
> The prompt was the song "Come out and play" by Billie Eilish. The atmosphere made me think of snow, and the opening images were born. "ilomilo" was another piece of inspiration.

_Then._

The snow is fresh under his feet. All around him, nothing but the hypnotic, headache-painful sea of shining white, swirling like waves when he moves his head, and the black arms of dead trees above.

It’s been snowing off and on for days. He’s lost count of how many. The sky is leaden, the sun a small, pale dot. The silence hurts his ears.

He stops, his body taut, quick and shallow breaths, heart pounding. He looks left, looks right, fingers twitching around his gun.

It’s the end of January, and Dean is sixteen—just turned sixteen. Winter has been merciless, up here in the mountains. It’s just the three of them, and a log cabin that their father borrowed, a favor from a friend that Dean and Sam haven’t met.

It’s the howling wind and Sam drying their clothes near the fire, and the rattling of their teeth when they go to sleep at night.

It’s the silence that drives Dean mad, more than anything else. It pounds inside his skull until it starts to feel like whispers, _whispers_ —and he never feels alone. And he _shouldn’t_. They can never forget to stay alert.

Something behind his back. Dean stills, and listens for the snap of a twig, a sound that could be steps, or a sudden movement in the corner of his eye.

He must’ve been wrong. He holds his breath, gun held up in front of him, this one’s his favorite. Makes him feel lucky. Not much luck to go around, other than that, to be honest.

It’s been a week now. They had to stop, giving in to the bad weather. Dad thinks there might be _something_ , in a town about a hundred miles away, but he isn’t sure yet. In the meantime, they’re researching. And they’re training.

Dean’s hungry.

A wrong step makes him stagger, almost sends him tumbling down him face-first. He sinks into a bank of snow up to his knees instead, grinds his teeth against the cutting, wet bite of the cold, and he pulls himself up.

_This_ is training. They’ve done this before, although usually the conditions are better. He and Sam decided to split up, this time, they changed their strategy. Both of them following the same tracks—their father’s. The exercise ends when either one of them finds Dad.

Or when Dad finds them.

Maybe Sammy will make it first, this time. And then they will go back inside, and Dean will take off his soaked socks and there will be a tin cup of bitter scalding coffee for him, and maybe they will be one day closer to leaving. How do you count the days, when you don’t have a finish line to look forward to.

They’ll be ready when Dad finishes his research. When they know what they might be looking for, and the snow storms will allow it, then they’ll be back on the road.

A thump, on his left, like a body falling. Dean turns, a swirl of white around him, the rumble of the silence in his ears grows louder.

There’s an explosion of blunt pain at the back of his head; a flash of black panic as his head rings with the impact. He sways, and loses his footing.

He falls, then, as the world turns upside down. He falls and the wet frost engulfs him, devours him. Snow under his teeth, on his tongue.

Dean stares up at the barrel of a gun, shining metal a breath from his face. His father’s figure, dark, stark contrast against the pale grey sky.

The gun is replaced by his father’s hand, gloved palm upturned to help him up. Dean takes it, he stands, shaking off the snow clinging to his coat, to his legs. The forest around them back in its place, its colors no less monotonous and disorienting.

“Let’s go.” Dad pats his arm. “Sam’s already back at the cabin.”

Dean looks down, away.

Two sets of foot prints in the snow. It will snow again, soon, erasing them.

“Dean.”

Dean looks up, meets his father’s eyes, knows he failed. And he’s tired.

“If this had been for real, you’d be dead.”

Dean nods. The freezing air burns his nose.

“I know.” He lets his arms fall at his sides. “I know.”

-

_Now._

Smoke rises in the summer air and Dean feels _nothing_. Embers glimmer through the liquid dark blue of the night, and he thinks of yellow eyes.

Their father’s body burns. A hunter’s funeral.

There’s solid ground under Dean’s feet, tall grass. Every smell, every sound, too real. Every heartbeat pumps his stolen life through numb limbs. Every stolen breath is like swallowing glass.

Dean opens his flask. _Pour one out,_ it’s something people say, and he hates it. He does it, still, pours some of his whiskey on the grass for his father who died for him. He downs half of the rest with trembling fingers, head tipped back.

It should have been him.

When he looks back to the pyre, his sight is blurrier. He blinks, and the corners of his eyes sting, and his cheeks are wet. It feels like blood.

A hand on his shoulder. Like being pulled back to life.

Dean shudders, tensing. He wants to shake Sam off. He wants to push him, and scream, and there’s nothing in the world that can makes things right, because it should have been him and instead he’s alive.

He can’t meet his brother’s eyes. There are no words that can form in Dean’s mouth. No words he wants to hear.

But he sags forward, and Sam’s touch is light and grounding, and then Sam lets go, saying nothing. And maybe Sam doesn’t know, will never know, but the moment passes, and Dean won’t throw himself on the pyre.

There are stars above them. One night like any other. The fire crackles, and red-orange flames lick the sky.

Dean takes another sip. His tears continue to spill, slow and wound-like.

He thinks of a forest, and a never-ending blanket of snow swallowing his steps. 

The silence in his ears, like then, is just as deafening. 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my hand at writing gen, I tell myself. Don't know if I succeeded.  
> This isn't meant to be shippy or creepy, necessarily, but a bit of darkness and sadness almost always creeps into my writing.  
> I have lots of softness for younger Dean who was probably trying so hard to obey orders and not ask questions and be the best soldier he could. Season 1-2 Dean is so young, still, and so alone.


End file.
